Sleepwalkers (3 page)

Joe comes out a bit later, showered but still with muddy knees. I laugh and he gives me a grin. I put my arm around him as we walk to the car.

‘Football’s a shit game,’ I say as lightly as I can.

‘You’re not allowed to swear.’

‘Fifty pence in the swearbox. Remind me when we get home. But it is.’

‘Yeah. It’s alright, maybe.’

He’s groaning under the weight of his school bags and I offer to take one but he shakes his head. I notice all the other kids are carrying theirs as well. Fair enough. I walk a little more slowly to the car.

Inside, I whack the heating up and hand him a chocolate bar. He munches on it gratefully. I want to chat to him, but he’s happy just to be taken home, doesn’t want an inquisition, so I drive off. We pass Gruff with his son. Gruff’s talking animatedly, angry about something. The boy has his head down, not listening. This cheers me up.

We drive on in silence for a while. Traffic slows us.

‘I hated football when I was your age. Then I grew, and it got easier. I was quite good when I was a bit older.’

If the encouragement seeps through, Joe doesn’t show it.

‘You’re just like me, you know.’

‘Yeah, you’ve said.’

I glance at him, see he’s smiling.

‘I thought I might buy us a goal, put it in the garden. We could play after school.’

‘You’ll break a window.’

‘Yeah. Probably trash all the flowers as well.’

‘Mum said you’re totally mental about keeping the grass all tidy.’

‘I am. Screw it, we’ll ruin the lawn. Who cares?’

Joe looks at me as though I’ve just crashed the car.

‘Yeah, and we’ll wreck the flowers, break windows and probably
get mad old Mrs Moore next door foaming at the mouth. And your Mum will kill us. What do you say?’

A pause. Then a huge grin spreads across his face.

‘Yeah. Let’s do it.’

He laughs, thrilled with his cheek. It’s a laugh that comes from deep in his belly. As we drive home we punch each other when we think the other won’t notice it. He’s laughing so hard at one point I’m worried he’s going to puke the chocolate back up. My boy.

*

We’re all singing Happy Birthday. Emma’s dressed in a pink fairy outfit with gigantic wings that make it almost impossible for her to sit at the table. She’s grinning like a good ’un, with chocolate smeared around her mouth. Carrie places the birthday cake down in front of her and our little girl blows all the candles out after four attempts. Then we have to relight them because Joe blew a couple out and Emma started to get teary.

I hold Joe back so he can’t blow them back again and even though he knows he mustn’t, he leans forward, unable to stop himself. We play a gentle, happy wrestling game to keep him back while Emma huffs and puffs.

Finally the candles are out. I release Joe who immediately snatches a candle and tries to light it with the box of matches. It’s relentless but it’s funny too. His face is alive with mischief, his eyes wide and excited.

‘Come on, get ready,’ says Carrie as she holds the knife above the cake. As the blade cuts through the chocolate we all scream as loud as we can until the knife touches the plate below. To let the Devil out. It’s an old ritual from Carrie’s side of the
family. Emma carries on screaming because it’s funny and it’s her birthday. Joe shouts at her to shut up, but they’re both laughing.

I hide the matches while Joe’s distracted, running my hand along the edge of the countertop. The floor is covered in wrapping paper. While they were at school, I hung up a cheap and rather tacky Happy Birthday sign with sellotape which won’t hold for much longer (and Carrie thinks the sign’s rubbish so I bet she’ll give it a sharp tug when I’m not looking). My hand touches a piece of masking tape which hides the moment when Joe and Emma got ‘creative’ with the cutlery. On one wall is a set of plates with painted baby feet to mark their arrivals. The room’s cramped and the table wobbles unless you stick some cardboard under one of the legs. There are stains on the ceiling from splashy playtimes in the bath.

Carrie hands me a paper plate with a slice of birthday cake on it.

‘Happy Birthday to you, you smell like a poo.’

‘Joe,’ we say at the same time, with the same voice.

And then the phone rings. It’s right next to Carrie, but she seems busy tidying up.

‘You want to get that?’ she says, her hands full of wrapping paper.

‘It’ll only be your mum, wanting to talk to Emma.’

‘So pick it up.’

I don’t like Carrie’s mum, but since I barely ever see her I can’t really tell you why. So I answer the phone. There’s a pause. Maybe she’s dropped the phone.

‘Hello?’ I say. And there’s a voice on the other end that I don’t recognise but for some reason I like. That’s odd. He’s
asking me questions and I can’t stop myself from smiling and …

*

It’s easy to break into a hotel. There are cameras all over the place, of course, but a hood and a screwdriver are all you need. I slip inside with barely a pause. The room I need is on the fourth floor, but I take the stairs rather than risk the lift.

The corridor is deserted. It’s an expensive hotel. There are large bouquets of flowers on tables and a scent of lilies in the air. I walk along to the right number: 406. Check my watch, Then pat my back pockets. They’re there. I know they’re there but I pat my pockets to be sure.

I knock on the door and take a step back.

I wait, then hear bare feet pad upon carpet towards the door. Then silence. She’s checking through the spyhole right now. Another silence. Then the door opens. Dumb fuck. They always do it, but dumb fuck all the same.

I move fast. One hand hits her straight in the neck. Shuts her up and knocks her back into the room. The white hotel dressing gown rises up as she falls; she’s naked underneath. We’re inside in a blink and I push the door shut – not too hard, don’t want the door to slam, but firm enough to hear the lock click.

The woman sits up as I reach behind and pull a small hammer from my back pocket. I slam it hard. Not even a yelp. I’d use the hammer again but I don’t want any blood on the carpet. Those are the orders.

Her eyes pop open, bulging, staring at me with confusion and panic, as my hands grab her neck. Won’t be much longer.

She scratches at my hands. Her nails sink deep and draw
blood, but it makes no difference. Her legs kick and her thin body writhes. I like her for trying.

Soon it is over. I wait, check her pulse. Wait another five minutes and check her pulse again to be sure. Done. Then I stand. I must have done it too quickly because it gives me a slight head-rush. I shake it off, go to the door, open it. My man is waiting for me outside.

We head back in. Time to get her out of here.

But then my body starts to shake, as though someone has grabbed me by my shoulders. I turn to look at him but he’s just staring down at her on the floor. My whole body shakes and convulses. I feel a moment’s panic. I’m shaking and shaking and …

*

I wake up with a jolt. Emma and Joe are shaking me, laughing and screaming. Daylight’s coming in through the window. Although Emma’s in her pyjamas, she’s still got her fairy wings on. She starts bouncing up and down on the bed and, still halfasleep, I imagine she’s flying. I see her blonde hair lit by the sun as it floats and bounces. It’s beautiful.

And then the pain hits me. Jesus Christ, I feel fucking awful. My head’s crushed, my shoulders ache and my back … oh Lordy, I’m a wreck.

‘Oh man …’ I croak.

And that only excites the kids more. Joe and Emma are jumping and jumping and the cheap, thin mattress isn’t holding out.

‘Guys, come on, give an old man a break will you?’

But they’re just laughing even more. Joe bounces high and hard, then crashes, bottom-first, onto me. Emma screams with
laughter. Joe’s wiggling his bum and I know he’s trying to do a fart on my head. Emma’s screaming at him to do it.
Do it!
I manage to push him off and sit up.

Christ, my hands …

I look down at them. They’re scratched. Badly scratched and sore. And I’ve absolutely no idea how this happened.

And then Joe and Emma come flying on top of me again. I feel my daughter’s soft skin as she wraps her arms around my neck. It’s more of a cuddle than a wrestle, but she wants to be part of the game. Joe’s jumping on me, using his knees to get some sort of reaction. Little bugger.

A shout from their mother stops them in their tracks. I look up – she’s dressed, a smile on her face despite an attempt at disapproval.

‘Come on, you two – breakfast. And you, lazybones, shift your chubby arse.’

Emma frowns. ‘Is arse a swearword?’

‘Not when your mother uses it. Go on downstairs, give your Dad a chance to wake up.’

They scuttle off, obedient as ever. Bloody miracle when I think of some of our friends’ kids. Carrie comes and sits on the bed. She puts a hand on my cheek.

‘Morning.’

‘Hi.’

‘So, guess where I found you last night?’

This doesn’t sound good.

‘Downstairs, asleep on the sofa, dribble all down your shirt, sat bold upright with Ian Botham’s greatest moments on the DVD.’

‘No … oh no …’

‘Tragic, fat man. Bloody completely embarrassingly tragic.’

‘Ouch.’

I look back at my hands.

‘Hey, you want to play rugby and risk those baby-boy looks, it’s your lookout. I’ve told you enough times.’

Rugby. Yes, of course! Slugging it out in the mud last night with the guys. Beers afterwards. Gav banging on about his new satnav. Trevor insisting that lager’s full of chemicals and he never gets a hangover with real ale. So he drinks ten pints to prove it and makes us all do the same. And now my head feels as though it’s in a vice. Cheers, Trev.

‘Seriously, hon, you need to get up, you’ll be late.’

‘I know, I just … I’m knackered. Totally grounded.’

‘Pull a sicky.’

‘Can’t.’

‘You’re a bit green, babe.’

‘Yeah.’

I look at my hands again. The scratches are so fine. They don’t look like stud marks. More like fingernails. I look up. Carrie’s watching me.

‘Shift your arse, mister.’

I sink back into the sheets. They’ve never felt warmer or softer. I peek out at Carrie. The raised eyebrow says it all.

‘Okay, I’ll get up in a sec. I will! I’m like a—

‘Coiled spring,’ she says, just as I do. We know each other too well. She shakes her head and turns for the door. Then suddenly turns back, grabs the sheets and rips them off the bed. Cold air sweeps over me. I hear her cackle as she canters down the stairs.

‘That’s not funny!’

I sit up, try to shake my head clear. Then look back down at my hands again. I feel stressed about something. My chest’s tight. But I can’t work out why.

I’m slow to get downstairs and when I do, I feel like I’ve walked onto Oxford Street during the sales. Carrie’s stuffing Emma’s ballet kit into her bag while having a running row with Joe about the nutritional value of doughnuts. I just crash down onto a chair and help myself to some kiddy cereal for a boost. Joe’s talking much much too loudly.

‘It’s one of my five a day!’ he shouts.

‘Are you kidding me?’

‘Apples are fruit, aren’t they?’

‘Hello?’

Emma joins in. ‘Apples is fruit, yes they are. Mrs Pearce said so.’

‘See?’ says Joe.

Carrie has her arms crossed. ‘You’re using your baby sister—’

‘I’m not a baby!’ Emma wails.

‘Apple doughnut’s got apples in it, right?’ Joe says, as though he’s talking to a thick kid. ‘Simple.’

‘Joe, I don’t even know where to begin.’

I stare at the milk and cereal in my bowl. The milk is now brown from the cereal. It makes me feel nauseous.

‘And jam’s made of fruits, right? So a jam doughnut—’

‘Do you have any idea how much sugar they use in jam?’

‘Still, fruit, innit?’

‘Innit? You said “innit”? Right, after school you and I are going to get on the computer and have a look at what too much sugar does to your teeth and belly. In fact, get your dad to smile and lift up his shirt and you’ll get an idea.’

I hear the words, know that they’re aimed at me. But they feel distant, somewhere else. A completely different world. Eventually I pull my eyes up. They’re all staring at me.

‘Right, that’s it, mister. No more rugby. You. Are.
Busted
.’

*

Carrie offers to drive me to the garage. It’s probably the only safe way to get me there, but she virtually has to kick me out of the passenger seat when we arrive. She’s laughing at me for being such a dope. And normally I’d laugh too but I feel more than sick, there’s something nagging at me.

Inside, I sneak into my boss’s office, hoping to snatch the sports pages and maybe a kip if it isn’t busy. His jacket’s on the chair which means he’s pissed off to the cafe round the corner. Nice one. The office is stuffy and hot, just as he likes it. I go to his desk, but there’s no newspaper there; he must have taken it with him.

Jeff pops his head around the door. Jeff’s a big guy, ex-army. He’s got tattoos all over his arms, but the one I always notice is the eagle on his right forearm. He grins a craggy smile at me. I notice the grey flecks in his hair. They make him even tougher, if that’s possible. He’s a piece of granite.

‘Oi, dosser, what you playing at?’

‘We busy?’

‘Enough. Some dozy tart’s put enough oil in her car to sink a tanker. Smoke everywhere. We got to clean it out, see if it can be salvaged.’

‘You got a paper? Wanted to read about the City game.’

‘What do you need a paper for? I was there, I’ll talk you through it. You won’t be happy, though. Come on, honest day’s work and all that.’

There’s a paper dumped in the wastepaper bin. I see it.

‘Mackey missed an absolute sitter,’ says Jeff. ‘Easier to have scored than missed. What a waste of money.’

I want to snatch the paper. But I can feel Jeff’s eyes on me. ‘Yeah, alright. I need a dump first—’

‘You’re not sneaking off to the bogs to read the sodding paper. It’s a day’s work, not a holiday, you git.’

‘What, coming from you?’